


There's No Such Thing as the Wrong Amell

by Ywain Penbrydd (penbrydd)



Series: A Comedy of Assholes (Rhapsody, etc.) [39]
Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Because politics, Boning the Sister's Husband, Improvised Sex Toys, Light Bondage, M/M, Magic, Open Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-26
Updated: 2019-08-25
Packaged: 2019-10-16 09:43:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17547293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/penbrydd/pseuds/Ywain%20Penbrydd
Summary: When Solona left for Denerim, she informed her brother that Zevran was not to be permitted to follow her to this political negotiation -- at any cost. But, the price of distraction is not what Daylen expects, however much he may come to enjoy it...





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [rhapsody_kinkmeme](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/rhapsody_kinkmeme) collection. 



> > Solona needs to actually Get Shit Done once in a while. Zevran is a big help if it involves murder, but past that, he can be... a complicating factor. Solona finds someone to keep him busy -- someone who is woefully underprepared for the elven tempest that is Zevran Arainai.
> 
> OKAY, SO, I THOUGHT THIS WAS GOING TO FILL THE PROMPT I WAS ASKED TO FILL, but it's not going to, because I neglected to check the details before I started writing. It'll still hit the smutty themes, when it's done, but I'm afraid I've altered the framing, so now it fills ANOTHER kmeme prompt. *coughs*
> 
> Apparently, this couldn't just ... chill and be a single chapter. No. So, I'll put it back on the poll, next month.

When Solona had left town, Zevran hadn't been there. Zevran hadn't been there, and Daylen had taken the entreaty to keep him occupied 'in whatever manner suits you, no really, whatever' as a sign that perhaps he'd have to do something outdoorsy, or maybe demonstrate some exotic magics. What mattered, apparently, was that Zevran was not to be permitted to follow Daylen's sister, the Arl of Amaranthine, to this political negotiation in Denerim -- at any cost.

What he hadn't expected was that fate would put him so directly and awkwardly in the elder assassin's path.

'Elder'. It wasn't even that Zevran was old, but he was old for a _Crow_. Crows were notorious for dying young and in fantastically grotesque fashions, often executed by members of other houses or even Orlesian bards. But, the presumed Black Shadow did quite well for himself, never slowing down to become a figurehead, the way so many Guildmasters did. Stories suggested he might be immortal, but Daylen suspected he had a few excellent healers in his pocket.

Other legends of the man, however, were truer than he'd ever believed, even after having them verified by multiple people. Surely, Isabela was just trying to make him nervous. Nathaniel was probably just _being_ a shit -- there were enough people who could confirm that he was exactly that, and without prompting. Sigrun was definitely trying to _start_ some shit, being a notorious shit-starter, as she was. But, nothing prepared him for the actuality of facing Zevran.

"You are not the Amell I was expecting to find in this bed," said the figure in the window, with a strong Antivan accent. "But, I can tell you are _an_ Amell. The lines of that face are in your blood. Which one are you? Daylen, I think, yes? Commander Amell said you might visit, this year."

"I, er... yes? Yes. I'm... I'm Daylen. Senior Enchanter Daylen of Dairsmuid, Commander Amell's brother. She, er... she said I should stay in her rooms, until she got back. Just, um... just in case you showed up. I mean, I'm... I'm kind of assuming you're the husband. You're the Crow. Being in the window. All... Crow-like." Daylen blinked at the figure silhouetted in the moonlight on the windowsill, clutching the blanket to his chest, as he sat up.

"I have been a Crow, yes. Am I one now? That is up for debate." The figure lowered himself into the room, stretching lithely as his toes touched the floor. Out of the moonlight, more of him became apparent in the low light of the lyrium border that ran along the walls. "But, yes, I am the husband. Technically Lord Amell, I suppose, but by marriage. There is another Lord Amell by marriage -- we've met -- he's blond, too, though I suppose the ears really set us apart. Though, alas, I suppose we'll have to do with the same title, from afar, because I'm not sure the world is truly ready for me to be the Arlessa."

Daylen snorted, squeezing his lips tight against a surprised laugh.

"You should have heard them when I was Teyrn-Regent of Gwaren! It was as if no one had ever seen an elf before!" Said elf crossed the room and sat on the edge of the bed, by Daylen's knee. "But, yes. I am Zevran, and you are on my side of the bed."

Daylen sputtered, holding the blanket tighter.

"If you move over just a bit that way, I assure you this does not need to be a problem. I am very flexible, as I'm sure you have heard," Zevran went on, looking down at Daylen's hip and then over at the other side of the bed.

"This is -- you don't seriously mean to get into bed _with me_?" Daylen looked more flustered than he thought he'd be capable of, after all the time he'd spent sailing with Isabela.

"And why not? You are in my bed, which I usually share with my wife, but she obviously trusts you to sleep here while she is away. She did mention I might arrive, did she not? You have said as much. And here you are, in my bed, waiting for me. I believe I have drawn the obvious conclusion."

Daylen stared, round-eyed, mouth opening and closing around objections he never quite managed to form. He'd let himself be taken by pirates! This was just one Crow, and the Crow _lived here_ and belonged in this bed! ... He had the strangest sense Solona had set him up.

"Ah, you are concerned about being so close to an Antivan Crow," Zevran decided, after a moment. "I assure you we are not so deadly to everyone we meet, even if I did try to kill your sister, the day we met. You see, it is a good omen. Now, we are married. But, I had a contract to do that. I do not take contracts, any more. You are quite safe with me -- safer than you are without me, I might venture, yes?"

And that, Daylen had to concede, was a good point. He moved to the side, taking the blankets with him as best he could with Zevran sitting on them, and sorely wished he'd stayed down the hall, no matter how much Oghren's snoring kept him awake.

"My thanks. I have longed for this return to my bed." Zevran unbuckled his boots, sliding the knee-high leather away from his legs with a quiet groan. "They fit so well, one forgets how good it feels to do without."

"How long have you had your boots on?" Daylen asked, as Zevran crossed to a wardrobe on the far side of the room, removing knives and belts.

"Maybe only five days? Not so long. One becomes accustomed to certain indignities." Zevran hung his gear on hooks inside the wardrobe door, hanging his clothes as he peeled himself out of them. "But, I am getting spoilt with the luxuries of no longer being for hire."

Daylen tried not to watch, but the tattooed lines along the elf's skin -- his sister's husband's skin -- were hypnotic in the way they rippled when he moved. The lines seemed to have been placed just so they might have that effect. "We have all paid some price we are just seeing the reward of, now."

"Have we?" Zevran looked over his shoulder as he pulled a nightshirt from the wardrobe and then closed it. "Ah, yes. You come from the Circle. I have heard many tales." He slipped behind a curtain between the two wardrobes, and the sound of pouring water followed.

"Do you want me to warm that for you?" Daylen thought to ask.

"One moment you are frightened to be in a room with me, and the next you are warming my bathwater?" Zevran chuckled. "But, no. Have you not bathed in here? Solona has had dwarfwork put in. The water is always warm. It is a wonder to me. We should have had this in Antiva."

"I've heard it's almost common in the Anderfels," Daylen volunteered, straightening the sheets, uncomfortably, and trying to place just what bothered him most about the situation. Zevran had been nothing but polite and reasonable upon finding him there, far more than he could say he'd have been in a similar situation. Perhaps the ease with which the man disrobed? But that was to be expected, he knew. Assassins, slaves, whores, and soldiers -- usually mages, too, if he were honest. Maybe the fact that instead of throwing Daylen out of his bed, he'd proposed just getting into it beside him? But, again, a different standard of politesse, he thought. All in all, a very unusual situation, and nothing wrong that he could quite nail down. Probably just his own paranoia, never quite settled after the attack on Dairsmuid.

A bit more splashing and the sounds of cloth rustling, and Zevran reappeared, clad in an ankle-length woolen nightshirt done in a traditional Rivaini pattern, the slits up the side nearly reaching his hips. "I am far less foul with travel," he said, turning back the blankets on his own side of the bed. "If that was your concern, have no fear, I have dispelled it with fine soaps of myrrh and roses -- exactly the sort of thing assassins do not wear. It is better not to announce one's presence at a distance. But, here in my sturdy, civilised home, ah, again, I am spoilt with the trappings of the city and good living."

"My sister always says you smell sweet," Daylen said, stupidly, the words falling out of his mouth before he could think better of it. "It, er... must be the roses." He slid down and pulled the blankets up to his nose, hoping to forestall any other foolish remarks.

"Does she? I hope that is not the only thing about me she claims is sweet. But, maybe I need to have more of the tufted fruit sent from Seheron. Almost as dangerous as the blightlands fig, but so very delicious. But, that is the way of things, is it not? The most dangerous things are the most rewarding, once they are no longer trying to vanquish you." Zevran slid into bed. "But, I will stop keeping you awake. Sleep well, Enchanter."

Daylen lay awake, staring at the high ceiling, long after Zevran's breathing turned slow and regular, but sleep came to him at last, his eyelids weighted by the hour and the slow rise and fall of the blankets with each breath of the Antivan Crow beside him.


	2. Chapter 2

Daylen awoke slowly to the sensation of hands wandering his skin, clutching at his hip, a head pillowed on his shoulder and his own arm asleep. Why couldn't he remember--? Probably Isabela. Who else would it-- well, actually, there were a number of options there, but usually it was Isabela. He pressed his lips against the top of that head and pulled the warm body closer. Ferelden, he was learning, was much less warm than Rivain, even if Dairsmuid didn't look that far from Denerim on maps.

He was in Ferelden. He was in Solona's bed.

That wasn't Isabela.

He jumped back against the headboard, as best as he could, tangled in the sheets and another body. "Sorry! Sorry!"

"For waking me, I hope." Zevran blinked tiredly from the edge of the bed, where he teetered precariously. "What, is there a spider in the sheets?"

"No, no, I just... er, mistook you for Isabela. In my sleep. Obviously not..." Daylen gestured at Zevran with one hand, the other still gripping the headboard.

"Ah." Zevran nodded and relaxed, moving back onto the bed and grabbing the blanket that had slid onto the floor behind him. "Then you will come back to bed, yes? Isabela and I, we are not so different. But? She is taller."

"I'm sure that's not the only difference," Daylen muttered, trying to get his heart out of his throat as he eased back down into the bed, pulling the heavy blanket up over them both.

"Perhaps there are a few more. Maybe you would like to find them? To compare more thoroughly?" Zevran raised an eyebrow, reaching out to tuck a lock of Daylen's dark hair out of his face.

'Whatever manner suits you', Solona had said, and Daylen was suddenly very aware of what she'd probably meant, having known Zevran for so many years. Having been married to Zevran for so many years. She'd known this was likely, and she'd been encouraging him.

And, really, was Zevran so different to Isabela? Aside from being male and an elf, neither of which counted against him, and married to Daylen's sister, which, really, was the one he was still struggling with. It was odd. In the Circle, there was no marriage, no public relationships, not even in Dairsmuid, which was notoriously loose with the rules around family, but he still had the sense that sleeping with one's sister's husband was one of those things one wasn't really supposed to do. Unless one was an Amell, apparently. He'd heard some stories about Cousin Anton's husband and a bottle of cordial.

"And what comparisons do you suggest?" Daylen asked, trying to steel his rolling stomach. "I've always been a terribly meticulous researcher, which I understand is not a family trait, but I appreciate advice on where to begin."

"Begin at the beginning," Zevran suggested, folding the blanket off himself and dropping it onto Daylen. "She is taller; I am a man; she is human; I am more golden in colour -- it is good to notice the little things first, yes?"

The Rivaini-styled robe still covered most of Zevran's body, the thick wool of it betraying its Fereldan manufacture, and Daylen thought he should get something like it for himself, especially if he meant to see more of Ferelden. "I don't think I've ever seen Isabela wear so much to bed."

"She spent enough time lurking in Ferelden that she's become accustomed to the chill. Every time I go back across the sea, I return to a terrible reminder that here, everything is cold and wet. Do you not miss Dairsmuid? It is a beautiful port, and always so delightfully temperate." Zevran stretched, running a hand through his hair.

"Not often, but sometimes, still. I'd like to go visit, now that it's safe. They can't keep me, if I don't want to stay." Daylen's eyes lingered on the taut line of Zevran's neck. "Dairsmuid is where Isabela found me, you know. The Templars set sail from Val Royeaux, because our Templars weren't Orlesian enough for their tastes, and she led a whole fleet to stop them. To rescue us. Not that we stood around wringing our hands -- we helped, but we couldn't have done it without her."

"And there is another common point! I found, and in some interpretations 'rescued', Isabela on the other side of the Rialto Bay. You see, we are very much alike, she and I." Zevran's lips turned up in half a smug smile. "We linger around the bay, looking for pretty things to try to take home with us. She is much more successful than I, clearly, but then, when we met, I did not have a home to bring her back to."

"She's quite strong, you know. Picked me up and carried me back to her ship!" Daylen's face reddened slightly, and one hand fluttered uselessly. "Just... tossed me right over her shoulder and carried me off! Right in front of the First Enchanter!"

"You must have been quite a sight. Was your hair so long as this, then? I can imagine it fluttering in the winds along the coast, behind her, and your skirts half hiked up and fluttering before her." Zevran chuckled, propping himself up on his elbow. "Do you wish for me to show you I am just as strong as she? I would be happy to lift you and carry you around the room. The view of your assets would not be improved by the angle, but that is why there are mirrors, no?"

"I assure you it is only my _ass_ you would see at that angle, which is not one of my better features," Daylen muttered, lapsing back into the stiff tones of the enchanter he'd once been.

"Is it not? Well, perhaps you should introduce me to your better features, maybe even your best features, yes?" Zevran eyed Daylen curiously, eyes lingering a little too long at the pulls and creases across the chest of Daylen's gold silk nightshirt. "The shirt. Orlesian, yes?"

Daylen offered half a smile. "A gift from Isabela, following a particularly harrowing trade with some Nevarran rum-runners. _Definitely_ one of my better features." He swallowed and went boldly on. "It's a very nice silk. Would you like to touch it?"

"I would. It has been too long since I have had the luxury of fine Orlesian silks." Zevran cupped his hand around Daylen's thigh, under the blankets, rubbing the silk between his thumb and the side of his first finger, tugging just so, to move the silk across Daylen's skin in places he wasn't touching. "Is it as warm as they say?"

"I'd hoped, but it's not warm enough for a Fereldan winter. I'm not sure anything is." Daylen swallowed nervously, once again. He knew exactly what Zevran was doing, and that it was wholly intentional. "And there's another difference. Isabela is much more ... direct."

"I learned, many years ago, that there is a place for directness, but in most situations, a more cautious approach is likely to end better, even if one doesn't get what one desires. There should always be a path for saving face, or one makes many unnecessary enemies. Isabela is building a reputation, you see, as a ruthless raider queen. Directness serves her well. I, though? In many ways, I am still a Crow, at heart. I find a certain amount of caution is often well-rewarded."

"That's not how Solona tells it," Daylen drawled, with a disbelieving look at Zevran.

"Solona remains convinced it was my intent to kill her, when we met. It was the contract I held, yes, but it was not a contract I'd taken with the intent to fulfil. One might say taking that contract was how I left the Crows. Run away to Ferelden, straight into the heart of the Blight, you see where this is going, yes?" Zevran shrugged one shoulder, the motion not making it all the way to the hand that still toyed with the silk at Daylen's hip. "But, you say this is not so very warm? I have learned there are far better ways to keep warm in a Fereldan winter. I think if you have travelled with Isabela, you must already know some of them."

"Some," Daylen admitted, running his fingers along Zevran's wrist, with a dim warmth spell clinging to his fingertips. 'Keep him away from Denerim, in whatever way you see fit,' Solona had told him, and Daylen finally knew what he would do. "Did you want to show me more of them?"


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daylen needs to stop being so cold, and also perhaps to stop being so suspicious.

Daylen was far warmer than he let on, Zevran thought, until his hands touched skin not warmed by magic and felt the clinging chill of the winter night. He pressed himself almost flat against Daylen's chest and pulled the blanket closer, folding it to double the thickness. The blanket, after all, covered far more of the bed than they did, and he wanted more of it to trap the heat until they could raise the temperature beneath it far beyond the point at which either of them would think it cold. A Seheron heat, hot and wet, languid and dripping. The kind of heat where the only sensible motion brought cooler water to one's lips.  
  
Zevran's fingers dipped under the cuff of Daylen's silk nightshirt, pressing the stolen warmth from Daylen's hands against the damp cold of his jutting wristbone. "You know, a little bit of action would bring the temperature up. You would be much warmer, in motion."  
  
"Would I be?" Daylen teased, stretching along Zevran's body. He was much taller than the elf, he realised, as his shins scraped past Zevran's toes -- a foolish thing to have to realise; of course he was taller than an elf. But, Zevran had such presence, he looked like he should be taller. "Too warm, and I'll sweat. That won't be so warm once I stop moving."  
  
"Ah. You are right. Of course you are right." Zevran's hands glided over the fine Orlesian silk, tracing the curve of Daylen's hip, the lower line of his ribs. "Then, clearly, we must take a slower approach, yes? Nothing too quick, too energetic. Just enough to quicken the pulse and hold it, like a brisk walk through the wood."  
  
Slowly, Daylen brought up the hand Zevran had been holding, winding the tips of his fingers in Zevran's hair. "Yes, like a brisk walk, a quick survey of new territory, rather than, say, wrestling a giant crab for the crew's supper. The distinction is important, I think."  
  
"A survey, hmm?" Zevran's hand wandered down, tracing the muscles of Daylen's thigh. "You will be an excellent conquest to survey, I think. A long, slow journey through every secret hidden in this new territory."  
  
Daylen tugged at a ribbon and then another and the side of his nightshirt fell open to the knee. "If you intend to survey this territory, perhaps you should encounter it, first."  
  
Zevran's hand swept the silk aside, cautiously teasing the skin beneath. But, where he expected Daylen's long legs to be warmer than his hands, he found no such thing -- the Fereldan night had stolen the heat, even through the silk and blankets, and Zevran took it upon himself to correct that. Bringing his other hand up between them, he rubbed and kneaded Daylen's leg, working the muscles and chafing warmth into the skin. Daylen's knees were colder than the rest of his legs, as so often was the case with knees, and Zevran sank beneath the blankets to breathe warmth against them.  
  
At the touch of thumbs and warm air, Daylen rolled onto his back, untying the other side of his nightshirt and tucking the front panel between his legs. Warmth spilled across his shins from where Zevran had rucked up his own woollen robe to kneel across his legs, and Daylen's toes curled as he resisted the urge to bend his legs and cram his feet under Zevran. If he tried, he'd knee Zevran in the face, which was exactly what he was trying not to do.  
  
But, the way those fingers danced across his skin, pressing into places he had no idea could be squeezed and pressed like that, lighting up his nerves and relaxing his muscles, as they traversed the length of his legs, while Zevran's lips stayed focused on his knees. The warmth flooded into him, but he couldn't say it was primarily to his legs. Rather, just a little higher, where the fine Orlesian silk brushed against him with every motion either of them made, the heat rushed and pooled.  
  
Oh, Isabela had never been slow like _this_.  
  
Zevran used no tongue, and when Daylen's legs dampened with his breath, he blotted them dry gain with the silk and moved on to another spot. Slowly, but surely, the warmth came back into Daylen's body. Zevran made his way up to mid-thigh, the silk now between him and Daylen's skin, and he made no attempt to move it, his hands and breath nearly as effective through it as without it, and the heat kept longer in the cloth. He could feel Daylen begin to tremble beneath his ministrations, but a few well-placed fingers relieved even that delicious tension, and a long, low sound of pleasure poured out of Daylen's mouth in lieu of whatever words he might have considered before it.  
  
Moving up again, Zevran avoided the obvious choice, the tempting line beneath the silk, and pressed his cheek against the inner curve of Daylen's hip, instead, taking a moment to enjoy the benefits of his work, the warmth radiating up from Daylen's legs. He gently worked at the opposite hip, well aware of how every tug at the silk tightened it beneath his cheek, and he watched the effect the taut cloth had on the flesh beneath it. Oh, no, he would not do this the easy way. He'd pushed just hard enough to get Daylen to accept the idea that an evening's entertainment between them would not cause problems, later, but he would _push_ no farther. Now, it was time to tempt. Now it was time to let Daylen draw his own conclusions about what to do with the door that had been opened between them.  
  
Daylen, for his part, was well beyond much thinking, but for the occasional flickering awareness that it was a good thing he was a mage, because he didn't particularly want to have to wash this nightshirt, which would be inevitable, if this kept up. But, magic allowed for so many easier ways to clean things, which had served him well, at sea. Isabela had certainly appreciated it, and he had no doubt that Zevran already had an appreciation for the restorative and reparative uses of magic.  
  
Ah, Zevran, about whom so many tales had been told, who now lay across his legs, binding the heat in, continuing to spread that heat upward. And Daylen could feel it skipping through him, like lightning coursing from the join of his hips of the ends of his fingers, now gripping the underside of the blanket, twisting and squeezing as he tried to hold his legs still, Zevran's face pressed so close to where he at once wanted it and would be mortified to find it. Which was foolish, really. It was in his best interest to let go of whatever last dregs of modesty he thought he might have, at the rate this was going -- dregs he thought he'd long since shed, at sea, but somehow, he never ceased to be surprised at the world outside the Circle.  
  
He finally shuddered uncontrollably, his hands releasing their death grip on the blanket, his legs tensing like he'd stepped on a lightning rune. A low guttural sound wrenched from his throat, and he found himself surprised at the strength and sincerity of that wordless sound. Still dazed, eyes still glitter-spangled, ears still ringing, Daylen reached down and patted insistently at Zevran's shoulder, beckoning him back up and further from his once-chilled legs and hips.  
  
Zevran moved like one of the red lions of the Frostbacks, fluid and almost predatory, as he crawled up Daylen's body, head and shoulders raising the blanket enough to demonstrate the difference in temperature, as he stared down smugly, eyes glimmering gold in amusement.  
  
"Too much?" he asked, and it was impossible to determine if the words were meant in jest, or perhaps Daylen's mind simply couldn't decipher the subtleties of that tone in its current distracted state.  
  
"I'm--" Daylen stared up at Zevran, who stretched over him. He blinked owlishly, trying to focus on anything besides the warmth between them and the lure of those low-lidded eyes. Isabela had warned him that this was one of Zevran's Crow skills, that she'd taken a lesson from the way he used his allure to position himself for near-flawless assassinations. Except the ones he'd screwed up entirely, and she hadn't been able to stop laughing long enough to actually tell any of those stories, so he'd been left with the vision of Zevran as a deadly, seducing shadow. Not that he thought he was in any actual danger, at the moment. No more danger than that he might agree to enjoyable, if potentially regrettable things.  
  
"You are giving me this look like you are afraid," Zevran observed, moving carefully to the side and lowering himself down beside Daylen, keeping his hands to himself. "This will not do at all. I will be less frightening if I remain on my own side of the bed, perhaps?"  
  
Daylen looked baffled as Zevran moved away from him. "That's... not what I was going to say. I'm not afraid of you -- I have no reason to be. If I had a reason to be, you'd already have killed me and gone off to collect on the contract." He paused, brow wrinkling, as he tried to put together what he meant in a set of words that would make as much sense to Zevran as it did to him. "I'm more afraid that you'll tempt me into something foolish. Something excellent, but ultimately foolish, and I'll hear all about it over breakfast, tomorrow."  
  
"Ah." Zevran nodded sagely. "Well, we can keep the foolishness confined, yes? If you open this drawer beside the bed, you will find many good things, but one of those is a white cloth. Give that to me."  
  
"I'm not sure a blindfold is going to help," Daylen muttered, but he snaked a hand out from under the blankets and pulled the drawer open, discovering it full of oils and potions, strange shapes in stone -- some he recognised -- and a few unlabelled wands. But he spotted the cloth immediately, the white standing starkly out from the rest of the contents, and handed it to Zevran. "That's heavier. Antivan silk?"  
  
"Llomeryn. It's raider silk, so you don't freeze on deck in a storm." Zevran unfolded it again and again, the strip growing longer until it became a scarf, which he threaded through the carvings of leaping hounds on the headboard, before tying one end around his wrist. "Come, confine the foolishness, and then it is yours, for the evening. Maybe some of the morning, as well, since it was late enough to be early when I arrived."  
  
"You... you want me to tie you to the bed?" Daylen sounded mildly horrified and entirely out of his depth. This was something Isabela had never suggested to him, though he knew she spent a great deal of time with ropes and other members of the crew. But, never the mages, he realised, and until now, he hadn't noticed that was the difference.  
  
"What harm to you can come at the hands of the Crow, when you can see where both hands are bound? Of course, this limits my talents somewhat, but do not think you will be disappointed by the rest of me. There is so much more than just hands." Zevran smiled at Daylen as if he were proposing something entirely obvious and foreseeable. "There will be no racing naked through the halls, like this, unless it is done by Howe, again. But, I do not think he will drink so much, again, nor that he will bet against Sigrun."  
  
"And you would trust me to do this?" Daylen looked unconvinced, trying to figure out what he was missing, and how much trouble he'd be in with Solona. But, she'd said 'any means', and while this might not have been his first choice, it certainly seemed to be working out. Something in the back of his head warned that Zevran could probably extricate himself from far more serious bonds than this, and that the offer of safety was merely a lure, but a lure to what, exactly? To getting them both laid? It wasn't an outcome he could find fault with, at that moment, and as long as nothing too exciting happened, he wouldn't. And on that point, Zevran was right -- there were a limited number of things that Daylen could come to regret if he was tied down.  
  
He still had absolutely no doubt that Zevran could kill him with his feet. He just doubted that was likely, at this point in the evening.  
  
"I have yet to have misplaced trust in a member of your family," Zevran reminded him, "and of all the ones I have met, you seem even less likely than usual to turn this into a situation involving a bucket brigade, the city guard, and four prostitutes of good repute. For the record, that was still a fantastic evening, and I expect this will be, as well, if perhaps less eventful?"  
  
Daylen accepted the other end of the scarf and bound Zevran's wrist. "I hope you know what you're doing..."


	4. Chapter 4

"And now that I am helpless before your ravening lusts, will you visit them upon me?" Zevran fluttered his eyelashes, offering a delighted smile. "The bold assassin finds himself at the mercy of a dangerous mage-- a very attractive dangerous mage, who looks much too concerned, and not very lusty at all. Something is wrong, _ami_?"  
  
"You'll tell me to stop, won't you? In as many words? In Common?" Daylen pulled the blanket up over his shoulders and draped it so it covered up to Zevran's chin.  
  
"Only if I mean it." Zevran twitched like he meant to reach for Daylen, forgetting his hands were tied. "Here, we will try it. Touch me any way you like, and I will tell you to stop. We will make sure you can hear me, if that makes you feel better."  
  
Daylen closed his eyes and ran one hand up the outside of Zevran's leg. At mid-thigh, he heard one word.  
  
"Stop."  
  
Daylen froze, his eyes flashing open, just in time to catch the smug smile on Zevran's face.  
  
"See? You can hear me just fine. You have done no harm to Isabela, or she would have warned me away from you. I do not think I have anything to fear from you, nor you from me. Let us put that aside and move on to what we can gain from each other, what exotic erotic pleasures we can bestow upon each other."  
  
Swallowing, Daylen nodded, not trusting himself to make words. He started simply, caressing Zevran with the magical warmth in his hands, letting the heat pass into Zevran's skin, where he could touch it, and the thick cloth of the robe where he couldn't. Zevran purred beneath him, arching into his touch, and Daylen watched the elf strain against his bonds, seeking more of that warm touch.  
  
"There is something to be said for a warm mage on a cold night." Zevran rubbed the back of Daylen's leg with one foot.  
  
Daylen's hand was on that foot in an instant, warming Zevran's not-so-cold toes. Less cold, more just not as warm as he'd become with the fire warming him from the inside. He kneaded Zevran's foot, absently, recounting the ways Isabela was so fond of poking and prodding his feet.  
  
Zevran's eyes slid shut, as Daylen's fingers found just the right spots, pressing heat against his still-tense muscles. He could recognise the way Daylen's hands moved -- he'd taught that to Isabela, years ago, and here she was spreading his secrets again. For the best, he imagined -- what a joy it would be to find such capable hands in every brothel in Thedas. Or every Circle tower. The heat spell was a nice touch, and he could feel the tension of too many nights sleeping in trees slowly melting out of his legs. He'd hoped Solona would be here, but no member of the Amell family had disappointed him, yet. He'd heard rumours of a brother in Hossberg. Maybe the next time he found himself up in the unforgiving desert, he would try to find a way to pay a visit. But, now, his focus was entirely on Daylen's excellent hands.  
  
With Zevran making quiet sounds of unmistakeable pleasure, beneath him, Daylen grew bolder, sliding up the woollen robe and letting his hands travel up to Zevran's thighs, finding himself in much the position Zevran had been in before they'd changed positions, before Daylen had made him stop. He listened as he kneaded this new flesh, waiting to hear Zevran telling him the same, telling him to stop, but the words didn't come. He thumbed the hard ridge of Zevran's hip, listening to the way the elf's breath stuttered, and he had the sense to wonder if that was just for him, if an Antivan Crow wouldn't have far more self control than that, if he meant to.   
  
Well, if Zevran wanted to suggest he was open to more, Daylen would be happy to make the attempt.  
  
A few deep breaths filled Daylen's mouth with the scent of Zevran's lust, as he leaned down to apply his tongue to Zevran's thighs. The smooth skin still carried a faint taste of leather, as if it had soaked in after months on the road, and a single bath was hardly enough to rinse it away. And in that moment, Daylen wondered what his own skin said about his lifestyle, if anything. Maybe he'd ask Isabela. Maybe he'd ask _Zevran_. But, not now, now was a time for other things, and he let the warmth travel through the whole of his body, bringing relief to his chilled toes and nose, before he brought his lips into contact with Zevran's skin.  
  
Zevran gasped. "Oh, this is why they call you an enchanter, yes? I am definitely enchanted."  
  
"I assure you, that's for my other talents, though I may bring some of them to bed." Daylen raised his voice enough to be heard through the blanket. "There are things we mages rarely bring outside the Circle, but perhaps an Antivan Crow might face them without fear."  
  
"You do not even need to untie me," Zevran assured him, kneading Daylen's back with his toes. "You are a stoneworker, yes? I have seen excellent dwarven stonework in the bedroom. I enjoy it greatly."  
  
"The concern is more often one of _where_ than of what." Daylen licked a long line that ended at the point of Zevran's hip, missing anything of interest along the way. He sat up and shifted up along Zevran's body, again, bringing the blanket with him. As he rubbed his fingers together, a tiny stone bead came into being between them, and he held it up and then placed it in Zevran's grasp. "I am a master of fine stonework. Little things that appear far more delicate than they are. Much like you, I've heard."  
  
"This is far too small, even for an elf." Zevran rolled the bead in his fingers and eyed Daylen uncertainly. "Where could you put such a thing that it would even be worth noticing?"  
  
"Just under the skin." A faint smile touched Daylen's lips.  
  
The revelation widened Zevran's eyes, as he immediately understood the appeal and the danger. Where he had learned to use his fingers, this mage had learned to use stones against the same points. " _Oh_... Well, then. This I am more than eager to enjoy. But, how do you take them out?"  
  
"The same way I put them in. When I want them gone, they are gone." Daylen curled his fingers and the bead in Zevran's hand melted away, leaving nothing in its wake. "Lord Hawke restores ancient ruins, huge structures, settlements, and roads. I work in much smaller things -- I can make a bead that size like a filigree cage with a dancing halla inside. It's the same work on a smaller scale. The stone comes and goes because we will it, like Solona's lightning. _That_ is why I am an enchanter."  
  
"I look forward to your further enchanting talents, Enchanter Daylen." Zevran offered a captivating smile, one that had won him many hearts he'd then stopped. Not that he had any intentions of damaging the lovely and talented mage who promised such pleasures.  
  
"Something simple, first. Tell me if it's too much." Daylen circled Zevran's nipple with the tip of one finger, and as it had between his fingers, the bead formed just under Zevran's skin, providing a subtle pressure, nothing much on its own. And then the tip of his finger made contact with the tip of that nipple and Zevran arched under him, open mouthed and shivering.  
  
Had it been pain, Zevran would have been in perfect control. But, he had expected pleasure, desired pleasure, _received_ pleasure, and in a way his body had not expected it. Such a subtle, tiny change in the way the nerves sat, and his entire body wanted more. He could just barely turn the sounds coming from the concerned-looking face above him into words.  
  
"Too much?" Daylen asked, withdrawing the stone.  
  
"Not nearly enough," Zevran replied, once he found his tongue and remembered how to use it. "Where else would you use such things, hmm? Do you know the feet well enough for that? The hips? The spine?"  
  
"The spine is asking for an accident, and we don't have a healer," Daylen warned. "But, I think I can place a few you won't regret. And there are so many more things I could show you -- more obvious things, but likely still more interesting than dwarven stonework. That doesn't usually move beyond an earthquake rune."  
  
"What else would it do?" Zevran asked, curiously, as Daylen replaced the stone under his nipple, matching it on the other side. This time, he would be ready.  
  
"Maybe I'll show you, later, if you still want more." This, Daylen determined, would very likely keep Zevran in bed until Solona returned. He'd have meals sent up, and they'd spend time trading techniques behind closed doors. Assuming he could keep up with Zevran, which remained to be seen. "One talent at a time. Tell me when you've had enough."  
  
"Ah, but what of your pleasure? If I am to remain bound, and you torment me with these delightful stones, I do not see much in that for you," Zevran admitted, his thigh tensing and rolling as Daylen's fingers toyed with his flesh.  
  
"How would you have me satisfy myself, then?" Daylen's hands lightly caressed the stones and the flesh around them, watching Zevran learn the sensations and re-master himself in the wake of each new pleasure.  
  
"On me, I have no doubt you could make me thrash and writhe for you. Inside me, I would wring you at your every touch. Or you could demonstrate your other stone techniques for me." Zevran fluttered his eyelashes and canted himself as coquettishly as he could, with Daylen kneeling across his thighs. "I am quite certain any of these would be pleasing to _me_."  
  
Daylen parted his thighs further and slid his other hand down between Zevran's thighs, behind him, fingers already well slicked by the time they reached their goal. "What about some amount of all of the above?"  
  
"And how do you intend to accomplish that?" Zevran's eyes lit with a hungry lust, as he raked his eyes down Daylen's still-clothed body, his own robes rucked up to his underarms already.  
  
"With two more stones and this lovely dagger." Daylen's hand slid down Zevran's chest to wrap around the obvious flesh as the fingers of his other hand slid in far more easily than expected, a clear sign Zevran was both willing and highly skilled.  
  
"I think one of these stones is obvious, yes? The one that is like dwarven stonework? But, the other...?" Realisation washed across Zevran's face as Daylen raised a stone in a place Zevran should have expected it, those warm, slick fingers stroking and rolling it. Zevran felt his breath quicken as Daylen's other hand returned to his nipple. The stones made every touch feel like so much more, and he found himself nearly drowning in it -- a difficulty he hadn't had with any combination of toys, appendages, and personages in many long years.  
  
As Daylen's weight settled across his hips, mage-slick innards already clenching and settling around him, Zevran resigned himself to deep breathing, trying to focus on what was actually happening to him, rather than the intense and delicious sensations it provoked. Three stones beneath his skin, in places to provide a gentle pressure from the wrong side of the nerves, lifting them and pressing them against the skin, where Daylen's fingers teased them in ways otherwise impossible. One man perched across his hips, deeply impaled upon his knob -- this, at least, was relatively normal; alone, it was something he'd have to truly gather his focus to, to gain much satisfaction from. But, Daylen's fingers continued to toy with the stone hidden deep inside him, and Zevran found that nearly irresistible, the way his skin twinged with that pleasure from the point of one hip to the other and down to nearly mid-thigh. This was one of the most stunningly erotic sensations any mage had ever provided him with, ranking somewhere around that sparking fingers thing Anders had taught to Solona.  
  
"One more stone," Daylen breathed, dizzily, his concentration split between keeping track the stones in Zevran's flesh and taking his own pleasure with that flesh. "Too much?"  
  
"I feel you are underestimating me," Zevran lied, easily, pleased to be able to put those words in the correct order and to have more sound behind them than a panting breath.  
  
Daylen's eyebrows rose, as if he were waiting for Zevran's mind to change, but no further words came, and Zevran just stared back at him, bold and certain.  
  
Zevran had never once in his life been so uncertain in bed. Not even that time he went to bed with a man, woke up with a woman, and later learned they were twins. Not even that time with the qunari.  
  
But, all doubt was swept from his mind right along with his coherence, when Daylen's fingers withdrew from his body, leaving a rippling, blossoming shaft of stone in their wake. The earthquake rods of the dwarven stonecarvers had been a delightful diversion, when he'd first discovered them, but they were nothing compared to the fluid reshaping stone inside him, now, ridges and bumps, a questing shaft, a swelling egg -- and every shape it took teasing and stroking that stone Daylen had left buried beneath the surface.  
  
Daylen ground himself down, letting Zevran's breathless bucking and writhing drive the motion between them. One hand splayed across Zevran's chest, thumb skimming one nipple, pinky the other. His other hand gripped his own knob, almost still as Zevran's erratic motions pounded him through his own grip.  
  
And then, suddenly, Zevran tensed and arched, the desperate jerking of his body becoming smooth undulations, as he finally understood the pattern of the rippling stone and flexed and bowed to meet it at every shift. This mage knew exactly what he was doing, Zevran thought, and if this was the way of the Circle, then he would definitely make a point of visiting the other Amells he had yet to discover. Perhaps he would make a fool of himself in the depths of Rivain, the next time he found himself in the East. But, now? Now he would make a fool of himself in his own bed, at the true enchanting power of Enchanter Daylen of Dairsmuid. Isabela would get another scarf-fluttering entry in The Randy Dowager out of this, he had no doubt.  
  
The strangest things fluttered through his mind as he lost it, Zevran realised, just before he noticed he couldn't think at all any more. There was nothing left but the rush of pleasure that swept beneath his skin, sparking and flaring as it bounced off the ends of his nerves. If he was going to die unexpectedly, it would be like this, and he wasn't sure he would mind. There were worse ways to be assassinated, and he'd know.   
  
Daylen trembled from exertion, his mind and body focused entirely on his own pleasure and Zevran's. He could feel the shift in his own breathing as he watched Zevran's flushed chest rise and fall in time with each panting breath. He could feel the tension in Zevran's thighs, held beneath his own, muscles straining to keep pace with the rush of pleasure and the stone blossoming inside him. And then he felt Zevran let go, the gasp, the aching thickness, the first hard throb against his insides.  
  
And Daylen rutted harder against the body under him, even as he began to dismiss the stones. His focus could no longer be divided and he didn't want to lose track of them. Only the still-rippling shaft remained, and it swelled and swirled with his desires, inflicting his passions on Zevran, who seemed well-equipped to bear them. A few more thrusts, a few more strokes, a rough twist and squeeze, and Daylen followed Zevran into the blinding, mindless heat between them.  
  
"Weren't we trying to avoid becoming wet?" Zevran panted, slowly remembering where he'd left his tongue.  
  
"Blight," Daylen breathed, one hand supporting him against Zevran's knee and the other still wrapped around his knob. He finally dismissed the last of the stone, and heard Zevran sigh beneath him.  
  
"Fear not, my Rivaini ocean flower, your sister has foreseen this, as I am fairly sure she foresees all things, or at least does an excellent job of always looking unsurprised and completely prepared." With a flick of his wrists, Zevran's hands fell free from the scarf that had bound them to the headboard.  
  
Daylen's first awareness of that was when those cold hands landed on his thighs. As one does, he shrieked.  
  
"Perhaps a little warmth for my hands, Enchanter?" Zevran caressed Daylen's stunned-tense thighs with his icy fingers, until Daylen managed to grab them and rub magical warmth through them.  
  
"We're back where we started," Daylen muttered, again, looking around him at the twisted blanket, sweat-stained sheet, and pools of liquids he didn't want to consider too closely. "Only now we're wet."  
  
"Again, fear not." Zevran smiled slyly and nudged Daylen off himself. He took his time stretching his arms and flexing his fingers, watching Daylen agonise over the situation, before he leaned over the side of the bed and rotated the iron rings mounted by the posts. Then he laid back and patted the dry space beside him. "Come, you are exhausted, and my Solona is no fool."  
  
Daylen stared contemplatively into space as he felt the subtle undercurrent of magic in the room shift. Zevran had engaged a rune, possibly runes, somewhere under the bed. And then he felt his knees begin to warm, and the expression slid off his face as he turned a look of resignation on Zevran. "Bed-warming runes. She had bed-warming runes put in and you knew it this _entire time_."  
  
"There is nothing like a bit of chill to add to the excitement of an evening." Zevran offered a small, unrepentant smile. "Besides, you are much warmer, now, than had we relied on runes alone."  
  
Daylen dropped down beside Zevran and yanked the blanket up under his chin.  
  
"Come now, are you truly disappointed?" Zevran finally sounded concerned, as if he might have misjudged the situation.  
  
"In the morning, when I can feel my hands again, I'm going to show you things stone can do that even the dwarves never thought of," Daylen muttered.  
  
"I am not certain whether to be excited or entirely terrified, but I think I will decide that after you have started."  
  
"Don't worry, you'll be walking again before Solona gets back."


End file.
